Page 86 of Love Lessons
“What?” It’s so unexpected that I’m not sure I heard correctly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t.”
“Butwhy?” It comes out sounding harsh. Anger flares inside me. “Seriously, why? If I had a problem with your party, I’d just knock on your door and say so.”
“I know you would.” She looks stricken. “I’m sorry. I never meant for it to cause you all kinds of trouble.”
“Fine. I see.” There’s a heavy feeling behind my ribs where my heart used to beat. “Just had to get that off your chest?”
“I’msorry,” she repeats. “I really am.”
I nod like a wooden marionette. “Yeah, okay. Good night.”
She flinches. “Don’tgo,” she says. “Let’s talk about this.”
“Let’s not,” I say stiffly. “Talking isn’t what you asked of me anyway, right?”
“Ian,” Vera gasps.
“Forget it. Don’t worry about it. Good night.” That’s when I finally leave the bathroom, closing the door behind me with an abrupt click. The untouched bed is waiting for me, so I turn down the covers and climb in, punching the pillow and flopping onto my back.
The plaster ceiling looks back at me. I lie beneath it, feeling mad at the world. My anger is like a warm cloak around me, keeping me warm. Vera shouldn’t have called the police. That’s a bullshit thing to do.
And how could Vera—the person who’s made me feel more alive than I have in a long time—be the one who caused me so much distress?
She didn’t, barks a voice in my head.You did it to yourself, asswipe. Should’na had such a loud party. Shouldn’t expect a hundred and ten pound female to feel comfortable asking a bunch of rowdy athletes to shut up.
He makes a few good points.
Oh, and you shouldnt’ve hit that rookie from Boston so hard. That’s your real problem. And if you don’t man up and go see that kid, you’re the biggest pussy who ever lived. Wait—no. You’re a coward. Pussy is too good a’ word for you.
My conscience has a potty mouth. But I know it’s all true.
I roll over in bed a few times, trying to fall asleep, but it’s no use. I grab my phone and note the time. It’s one in the morning here, but back in New York it’s only dinner hour. I dial the damn PR guy.
“Hey, Mr. Crikey. Is this an emergency?” Tommy asks when he answers.
“Not at all. You need me to call back?”
“No, no. Just making sure I didn’t need to find you some bail money.”
He chuckles, but I don’t find it the least bit funny. “I’m calling because I want to take you up on that idea of visiting the guy with the, uh, badly broken collarbone.”
“Oh.” There’s a pregnant pause. “Wonderful. I’ll reach out, and we’ll set that up.”
Except now I wonder if he knows something I don’t. Right this minute he could be drafting a press release about trading me to Vegas. “And I picked two charities,” I add. “If you want to know what they are.”
“Great! Yeah. Just grabbing a pen. Okay, shoot.”
“I’d like to teach one of those soccer clinics that O’Doul did last year. Maybe I can even get his retired ass to help me.”
“Nice,” he says. “Good call. What’s the other one? You might not have time for both.”
“It will be fine, because I only want to make a financial donation to the other one. It’s the, uh, Look Good Feel Nice one. Whatever that thing is called. My friend is involved—she says they do good work. They helped her grandmother.”
“Got it. That’s a nice way to honor her grandmother. I’ll get you the information.”
“Thanks,” I grunt. “You take care.”
